


into the unknown

by giucorreias



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, But the worldbuilding is original, Fake Science, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Shameless theft of Star Trek terminology, space travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 23:56:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13647102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giucorreias/pseuds/giucorreias
Summary: John didn't really believe Mike when he said there was never a boring moment with that crew.





	into the unknown

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic for panelinha da limonada's very own secret santa. My secret friend had some pretty scary anime ships, but thankfully there was johnlock on the list, and as such here I am. This is an alternate universe in which Earth was attacked by the Sasurians, a war-hungry alien race, and America was destroyed. This was very recent, ten years or so, and as such despite technology being advanced because of the stolen tech from the Sasurians, humans haven't had that much time to have superior medicine that heals stuff in a few hours and things like that.
> 
> I like this fic, although I think it needs some pretty heavy revision that I didn't have the time to do because I was busy writing. You'll notice the beginning is pretty decent, but after that it goes a bit downhill. I hope to fix that within a few hours, but I had to post the fic now because of the rules. Those who don't post get kicked out of the group. 
> 
> as always, this fic would not be a reality without [iamela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/staywithme_13)'s infinite patience.
> 
>  
> 
> Edit.: as of 02/15/2018 i have fixed some scenes, and it's now a lot better. if you find any typos or any scenes in the present I forgot to clean out, please let me know ^^
> 
>  
> 
>  **A message to my secret friend** : hi, i hope you like this fic. It wasn't easy to write, because sci-fi has all those specific words, and you also need some pretty solid fake science. i hope to have delivered that. i swear i planned to write saigenos in the beginning, but i realized i'd have to watch one punch man again, and there was no time. i mean, there was, but johnlock was easier, i guess. not that much, though, because sherlock is a pretty tricky character and the johnlock relationship is pretty hard to make happen without turning john into a punch bag, which i tried to avoid. i hope none of the characters are too ooc, as it's one of the things you particularly requested. anyway, without further ado, here is the fic:

The SS Scotland Yard was a beauty. John himself didn’t understand much about spaceships, in general, being part of the medical—and not the engineering—division, but you didn’t need to be an expert to appreciate genius.

And that ship—that ship was a _work of art_.

“I know, right?” Mike said, a knowing smile adorning his face, as soon as he noticed John’s admiring face. “Sixteen months later and I’m still amazed every time I look at her. She is like no other ship on the fleet.” There was a degree of longing on his voice. His smile turned a little sad. “I’ll miss her.”

“It’s for the better, though,” John countered, supporting his weight on his old-fashioned wooden cane, taking it off of his injured knee.

“Yes,” Mike adjusted his glasses. Sighed. “I don’t want to watch my little girl grow up through holo-vids, you know? I already missed her first words. Her first steps. Her first smile. I don’t want to miss anything else. It’s going by so fast, and you don’t even notice when you’re out there. Space is-”

Mike stopped himself. John knew what he was talking about, of course. When you were up there, everything on earth seemed so… so little. So petty. It seemed such a waste of time and breath and effort to get married and have children and work and divorce, when the alternative was being in space.

And people down here didn’t understand. They just _didn’t_.

John patted Mike on the shoulders, and they stayed silent. There wasn’t much more to say, now. On the one hand, John understood why Mike was giving this up. He had said so himself. His daughter. On the other hand, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to do it, were they in similar circumstances. The first thing John had done after not being cleared for field duty was, after all, look for alternatives.

He had been a soldier, before. The best field medic there was. Every battleship had wanted him, fought for him. He had saved countless lives, sometimes with precarious equipment, sometimes while being shot at.

But that didn’t matter, anymore. Not after he got wounded.

John changed the weight from the cane to his other leg, suddenly conscious of his knee, again. Mike noticed, but didn’t say anything.

Mike was a good friend.

“Ready to go?” he asked instead.

“No,” John answered. “But let’s go. I can’t put it off forever.”

“It’ll be good for you, John.” Mike gave him a cryptic smile. “I can promise you, there’s never a boring moment with this crew.”

 

* * *

 

They welcomed him on the bridge. The Captain, Lestrade, with his salt-and-pepper hair. The First Officer, Donovan, a very professional black woman. All of the senior crew. Well, most of the senior crew—they were missing Sherlock Holmes, the Chief Scientific Officer. John met Lieutenant Hooper, instead.

“He does this,” the captain said, unconcerned, after someone pointed it out. “He’s probably on the middle of an experiment.”

“It just goes to say how unprofessional he is,” the first officer crossed her arms. “Rest assured we are not all like that, Doctor Watson, and you are very welcome. I have heard much about you.” She smiled, and John tried to smile back, but only managed a grimace.

 

* * *

 

His first month with the crew went by without anything interesting happening, and although he wouldn’t say he was bored, exactly—because he _wasn’t_ , and he was incredibly grateful he was able to be in space again—, it was not until he met Sherlock Holmes for the first time that John understood Mike’s comment about the crew.

“He refuses to let me treat him,” Anderson entered John’s office in a huff, the door opening up with a whir. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his eyebrows drawn in a frown, his white gloves still pretty clean. “I don’t understand why he comes all the way over here if he isn’t willing to be _treated_.”

“That’s because Graham won’t allow me access to my lab unless I get cleared by a suitable medical officer,” a voice came from the outside, and then a face John hadn’t seen before showed up on the door. He had an ugly bruise on the face, there was blood coming down from a cut on his eyebrow, and he was holding one of his arms in a protective stance. “You’re not a suitable medical officer, Anderson, you’re too busy worrying about your one-sided crush on Donovan.” The man moved his hand as if to prove a point, but hissed in pain. He threw his own arm a betrayed look.

John coughed, and the man looked up at him, striking blue eyes pinning him down.

“You must be the elusive Chief Scientific Officer,” John said, bemused despite himself.

“You are not Mike,” the face—Sherlock Holmes, undoubtedly—said, and John smiled, his amusement going up a few notches.

“No.”

Holmes frowned.

“Andromeda or Ursa Major?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You were a soldier—you have the military stance and the office is meticulously organized. You were injured, probably on the line of duty: the cane indicates it was the right leg, the place the Sasurians are statistically more likely to hit when fighting, since their biology makes hitting the leg a fairly deadly wound. You have a condecoration for services rendered on your shelf, which means you were a valuable soldier, so they would send you to the districts the fight is most critical, which then leads me to Andromeda or Ursa Major, the two- You’re John Watson!”

John, who was used to dealing with bad patients—and who had already heard of Holmes from Anderson—, had seized the opportunity given by Holmes’ babbling to direct him towards one of the cots, and by the time he had finished describing his line of thought, John had finished checking him for a concussion and was starting to check his arm—which had been broken twice.

“That was quite brilliant,” John answered, not paying much attention to Holmes’ face at all, now that he was examining the arm, and thus missing his stunned look.

“That is not how people usually react,” Holmes said, not very loud, almost to himself.

“And how do people usually react?”

“They tell me to fuck off.”

That startled a laugh out of John.

“I can see why that would happen,” John conceded, thinking back on Holmes’ deduction of Anderson. He hadn’t known the man nurtured a crush to Donovan, and now that he knew, he pitied the man a little bit—the first officer would never date a person of her own crew, especially not a subordinate—but that did explain why he had been distracted as of late. “Now sit still while I finish checking this arm, or I won’t clear you for lab work.”

John gave Holmes a mock-stern look, but the man simply watched him back. In the end, Holmes didn’t antagonize his treatment: quite the opposite. He was quiet and let John work on his wounds.

John was pretty surprised.

 

* * *

 

John woke up to an e-mail from the captain on his inbox. It requested his presence on the conference room, at the ending of the alpha shift. John looked at the clock, on the corner of his PADD, numbers flashing, and noticed it was almost time. He got up, quickly, and didn't even eat breakfast before moving towards the required place. He could always do it later, and it was never a good idea to leave the Captain waiting.

He arrived on the conference room only to find a smug Sherlock Holmes and a glowering first officer, sitting opposite sides of a rounded table. The captain, Lestrade, was in the middle, a resigned look on his face—he looked about ready to finish the meeting, even though it had barely begun.

“Doctor Watson,” Captain Lestrade said as soon as John entered the room. “Please, have a seat.”

John sat, suddenly worried about his presence. His mind wandered back to the last few days, trying to think of a reason for him being there. He couldn’t remember doing anything wrong that would call for a reprimand, so that couldn’t be it. He looked around, searching for clues, but none of the faces showed anything: the captain looked annoyed, and there was a silent argument going over between Donovan and Holmes, comprised mostly of facial expressions. If John wasn’t so worried, he’d be amused—Donovan’s facial expression kept souring, and Holmes’ smirk kept growing bigger, until Lestrade sighed loudly and interrupted them.

“Sherlock would like to request your presence on his next mission, Doctor Watson,” the captain said, bluntly, sending his first officer a warning look. “And we need you to sign a few permission forms.”

“Captain, he hasn’t been cleared-” the first officer started, only to be interrupted by Holmes’ baritone voice.

“That is merely because of his limp, Donovan, and that is obviously psychosomatic. Had Doctor Watson been treated by a decent psychologist, that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“What-” John tried to say, his mind reeling, but he wasn’t allowed to finish. The first officer punched the table, startling both John and the captain, but not Holmes.

“Do you have a psychology degree now, Holmes?” she asked, voice angry.

“I don’t need a degree for something that can be perceived by simple logic-”

“Are you saying that psychology is an useless field-”

“I am _saying_ that a wound treated within two hours through a healing pod rarely leaves any lasting injuries, and the Doctor-”

“You think you’re so _smart_ -”

“Enough, you two!” The Captain bellowed, a look of annoyance on his face. “Sally, we’ve been through this. If everyone on the team decides to accept the doctor’s presence on the mission and sign the forms accepting full responsibility for his presence, then there is nothing you can do.”

“But, sir-” The captain sent her a stern look, and she went silent.

“I’ll send the forms over to your PADD, Doctor Watson, and I’ll need them signed by fourteen hundred hours tomorrow. Sherlock will debrief you on the mission details, and Sally here will grant your crew card the necessary permissions to get equipment from the armory. If that is all,” he said, and didn’t really leave anyone any room to say anything else, already on the door. “I will go back to the bridge.”

The captain left, and the first officer right after him, leaving behind a stunned John—and a, once again, smirking chief scientific officer.

“My team has already signed their forms,” Holmes said, getting up. “Meet me at the end of the beta shift, in the lab, and I’ll give you the details.”

“But-” Before John could finish talking, Holmes was already gone.

 

* * *

 

John spent two hours agonizing over the forms—he seriously considered not showing up. He did not wish to be a liability, he thought, he’d just slow them down. More than that, he feared he might endanger them.

And yet—

 _Yet_ —

Having the opportunity to leave the ship, to visit another planet, to step on alien grass and look up to the sky and see different suns, different stars. The chance to take off his helmet on a planet with an oxygen-based atmosphere and be able to the feel breeze on his face, millions of light years away from the place he was born was—

It was—

Unbearable. It was unbearable to be able to feel the chance on the edge of his fingertips and consciously choose not to go, to stay, to be grounded and bound and locked away on the giant metal cage. Beautiful, comfortable, but nonetheless a _cage_.

A cage that had been given to him, gifted to him, as a reward for his service. Gilded, but he could still see the bars locking him in.

And now, the doors had been left wide open.

For how long, he couldn’t know.

John frowned. Sighed. Signed the forms. Then sent them, before he could change his mind. When it was done, he felt unbelievably light, like he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

 

 

The beta shift went by slowly. John couldn’t stop himself from looking at the blinking numbers at the corner of his PADD every five minutes and counting how much time he had left. It was made worse because it was an empty day—he treated an ensign with a burn on his face, a guy from engineering with a broken arm, and nothing else. Almost six hundred people, and only two of them had gotten hurt.

So John organized his medicine, re-calibrated the tricorders, wrote some reports.

He wished he could say he took his time and made sure everything was alright before signing off and leaving Anderson in charge, but that would be a lie. Instead, the first thing he did when the clock signaled the end of the shift was try not to run towards the labs.

(He _tried_ )

 

* * *

 

The labs ended up being nothing like he expected. Instead of cutting-edge machinery, glass boxes with alien plants, people in lab coats and safety equipment—there was a mess of tubes filled with colorful substances, a few microscopes, tons of paper and was that- yes, a Sasurian skull. Amongst all of that, there was Sherlock Holmes, analyzing something without any safety equipment, and an anxious Lieutenant Hooper hovering behind his shoulder.

They didn’t look up when he arrived, so he hovered awkwardly by the door for a few minutes before deciding to get in. He knocked on the wall—as the door would not make a loud noise—and Lieutenant Hooper seemed to finally notice him.

“Oh, hi,” she said, striding over to him and offering her hand. “Sherlock told us you’d come, but he got caught up at something and will probably take some time to finish it.”

“Should I come back later?” John asked, trying not to let his disappointment show.

“Oh, no! I have all of the mission details, I can give them to you! Just-” She looked around, trying to find an empty table. There were none. Most were either cluttered with paper or tubes. “Sit. Ah… Wherever. And give me a minute to find- Ha! Here.” She fished a PADD from under some of the papers.

John sat. Lieutenant Hooper walked over to him, the PADD in hands, and started reading the mission’s specifications out loud.

“The mission is pretty simple, actually. We’re going to visit Karina, on the Pho Sector, and get some samples of the local flora- Sherlock believes they might have properties that are able to counter most of the Sasurian poisons, since the planet used to be-”

“A Mowrian colony that the Sasurians wiped out, I know,” John interrupted her, not really interested in listening to a history lesson. Especially not a history lesson he had already been given, in the army.

“Right. Sorry. Yes. So we are going to phase down on the outskirts of their biggest deactivated battlefield,” Lieutenant Hooper approached to show John the spot on the map, complete with coordinates. “And then walk away from there on an angle of-”

“Molly!” she was interrupted by Holmes, whose face hadn’t even left the microscope. “Bring me the 8JK mixture.”

“Ah, yes-” she sent John an apologetic look and got up to do as she was told. She handed it to Holmes, who only now deemed appropriate to look up.

“Are you wearing lipstick?” he asked, sounding puzzled, a frown on his face. “You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”

“Ah, yes,” she answered, blushing. “I, er… freshened up a bit.”

John snorted, not very discreetly—it was a bit ironic that Holmes could notice Anderson’s crush on the first officer, but not Lieutenant’s Hooper crush on him—and the man seemed to finally realize he was there.

“You should set the tricorder to ignore TPK levels below 1.32%,” Holmes said, adding a drop of the requested mixture to whatever it was he was watching on the microscope, and turning his back to John.

“Not 2.65?”

“No, our suits are not as resistant as the military’s, anything over 1.32 might be dangerous. I assume Molly has gone over the basics with you?”

“I was just telling him about our plan to-” she started, but wasn’t allowed to finish.

“No need,” Holmes interrupted her. “He’ll be with me." And, then, he went back to instructing: "Don't take your wooden cane, Doctor Watson, the acidic atmosphere will damage it. Request a metal one.”

John took his PADD out, so he could take notes while Holmes explained the changes John would have to make on his equipment, coupled with descriptions of the differences between a deactivated Sasurian battlefield and an active one. Before going back to focusing on his microscope, the man offered John a half-smile.

They were well into gamma shift when John finally left the lab—he didn’t even notice he was hungry, Holmes proving to be an effective distraction.  

“Thank you for the opportunity, Doctor Holmes,” John said, and the man snorted dismissively at him.

“Call me Sherlock, please.” They shaked hands.

 

* * *

 

When John walked past his food replicator, back on his quarters, he noticed his reflection was smiling.

He hadn’t felt like smiling in a long time.

 

* * *

 

A deactivated Sasurian battlefield was an eerie sight. This one, particularly. There were dozens of crashed pods littering the ground, around the dark grey line of the—usually bright blue—Sasurian laser trap. John knew they had probably already been ransacked, freed of any useful technology—he knew that probably hundreds of people had already been here before him, and left the battlefield unscathed.

Yet, he couldn’t help but feel tense. He tightened his hold on the grip of his disruptor—a small laser pistol, smaller than he was used to, from the army—, before trying to keep up with Sherlock’s pace. It was no simple task: Sherlock had very long legs, and John kept being slowed down by his bad knee.

“What are we looking for, then?”

“ _Prunus mowrian_. They’re small shrubs with light green leaves and a fruit that looks like a cherry, but dark blue.”

“Right,” John answered, his eyes scanning the surroundings. There weren’t that many plants, and most of them weren’t very tall or seemed very healthy: John noticed the brownish leaves, the peeling barks. There were also not many sounds—all he could hear were the whirring of his mechanical cane, that had replaced his favored wooden one, and the beeping of his medical equipment. No bird-like fauna.

John wondered if he should talk—just to fill the silence—but Sherlock didn't seem like a talkative person at all, and John wasn't in the mood to be ignored. In the end, he kept quiet, trying no to let the atmosphere unnerve him.

He wasn't very successful.

 

 

It didn’t take them very long to find what they were looking for. Sherlock gave John a small glass box, with a blinking display that had the plant's scientific name and a few other data John didn't know what it meant, told him to fill it, then left to find something else. John wasn't a big fan of being left alone on a planet he had never visited before, particularly in the wilds, but Sherlock hadn't looked worried and no one else but him had brought any weapons, so John decided the planet was probably safe.

Which didn't really easy his unnerved feeling.

“Don’t get the ones that have lighter stripes,” Sherlock had pointed out before leaving, to which John had answered with a light nod. “That means they’re not yet ripe and won’t be as useful.”

After a moment of consideration, John decided to sit down on the ground: it would make his job easier and put less pressure on his bad knee. He put his cane down, so he could use both of his hands, but kept the disruptor close. Just in case.

Half an hour later, he had already filled half of his box and was finding it hard to find any other suitable fruits on that particular shrub. He was about to get up and search for another one when he heard Sherlock yell for help.

John’s head whipped around, trying to pinpoint the place the voice was coming from, his knuckles white against the grip of his weapon. He got up, quickly, and ran towards it—forcing his suit to go fast, _faster_ , his heart beating erratically. He stopped by a ravine, wondering if Sherlock had tumbled down, but not seeing anything.

Sherlock’s voice called for him again—not from down the ravine, thankfully—and John moved back to keep searching. He looked around, just to notice Sherlock was crouched next to a small bush, collecting some bright yellow berries. John frowned.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, still out of breath. Sherlock looked up at him.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Sherlock gave him a glass box similar to the one he had been holding before, but this one with different information. “Here, hold this.” Only then he seemed to notice John's hands were empty, but for pistol. He offered John a self-satisfied smile, eyes glinting. John felt suddenly very stupid. “Where’s the one you were filling?”

“Well,” John frowned again, “I thought there was something wrong, so I ran here. I left it at the other shrub alongside my…” realization dawned on him. “Cane.”

Sherlock hummed, getting up and dusting his suit. He was surprisingly graceful, despite the bulk. Once Sherlock turned to look at him, John searched his face, wondering if all of that had been on purpose. It wouldn't surprise him if it were.

“Let’s get those back,” Sherlock said, and the glint was still there. “And then move back to the meeting coordinates.”

“Yes,” John agreed, slowly, trying to decide whether he should ask.

He didn't.

 

 

The cane and the box were just where John left them, and were retrieved without much trouble. Sherlock helped him find another shrub of those and pick the fruits they needed, and not much time later they were walking back towards the meeting coordinates.

“This was easier than I was expecting,” John remarked, looking around. After not seeing a single animal, he had relaxed the hold on his gun. He wouldn't say he was feeling peaceful, exactly, as he was still on his guard, but he wasn't expecting any trouble anymore.

“Karina is a mostly empty planet,” Sherlock explained. “The Sasurians are deadly, and it is rare for life to survive in the wake of their warfare. You know this,” he affirmed, but it almost sounded like a question.

“Still,” John shrugged, “I was expecting- I don’t know. Giant rats, mutated animals or… something.”

“Nothing like that, no,” Sherlock snorted. “It’s more like… barely surviving flora, a few hardy insects, perhaps one or two small herbivores. In a few hundred years, maybe, things will flourish again. Life will be- hardier.”

“I heard this used to be a beautiful planet,” John said softly.“The Mowrians say-”

“They miss their homes, of course they say it was beautiful.” Sherlock looked up at the sky. It was green, with a few clouds and a huge saturn-like satellite. “Like America was beautiful, before it was destroyed.”

“Did you ever go there?”

“Once,” Sherlock answered, for a moment looking lost in thought. “It was a place like any other. Lots of buildings. Full of crime. Corruption.”

“A cynical vision.”

“The universe is no fairytale,” Sherlock shrugged and John hummed, but didn’t disagree. After all he had seen, in battle—after meeting the Sasurians and their destructive ways—John couldn’t say the universe was a happy place.

(It was still beautiful, though)

 

 

They reached the meeting coordinates, and sat down to wait for the other pairs to show up. It didn’t take long: twenty minutes later, and they were ready to get back to the ship. Sherlock pressed a button on his communicator, attempting contact with the spaceship, but there was no answer. Not on the first try. Not on the second.

“Static,” he explained. “Not good.”

“What do we do?” Lieutenant Hooper asked, a slight tremble to her voice. John frowned, looking at the sky. There were much more clouds, now. Graying. Sherlock seemed to reach the same conclusion at the same time, perhaps even faster.

“We search for shelter,” John answered when it seemed no one else would. “There’s a ravine a few-”

“No, that’s too far away and not guaranteed to give us what we need.” Sherlock interrupted him. He was fiddling with the communicator on his wrist. John pursed his lips, but before he could ask what Sherlock suggested instead, he was already saying: “We should seek shelter on the broken pods.”

“But-”

“The likelihood of there having a trap or anything dangerous left on any of the pods is minimum and not worth considering,” Sherlock interrupted him again. “They’re safe.” He gestured towards one of them.

“Right,” John agreed reluctantly, not entirely surprised that Sherlock had guessed the reason of his reluctance. He was about to ask what Sherlock was doing, but the man seemed a bit irritable, so he decided against it.

Instead, he started looking for a pod shell that looked solid enough to protect them against the weather.

 

* * *

  

They were all squeezed together inside the pod, uncomfortably so. Mrs. Hudson—one of the oldest members of the crew, with a degree in culinary, biochemistry _and_ medicine—was trying to distract everyone with stories of her past.

She wasn’t a particularly good storyteller, but it was still better than having nothing to do. John would chime in now and then, comparing his experiences in space, but mostly he kept an eye on the rising levels of TPK in the atmosphere—the toxic gas resulting of Sasurian’s weapons—, and Sherlock’s meddling with his own communicator.

John was worried about Sherlock: in two hours, he hadn’t said a word.

He’d stop messing with the comm for a while just to look around, take electronic parts from the pod, and then go straight back to it. That wasn’t healthy.

“America was a lovely place,” Mrs. Hudson said, answering a question John didn’t hear. “I was from Florida, you know.”

“How come you don’t have the accent?”

Mrs. Hudson patted the young ensign on the shoulder. John was about to say something, when there was a noise. He looked around, only to notice Sherlock’s annoyed face at the broken piece of machinery he had been fiddling with.

“This won’t do, Sherlock,” she said, her tone a scolding one. Sherlock shrugged, not really looking at her, and turned back to his communicator. She tried again: “Why don’t you tell them about your time in Florida? It is such a nice tale.”

“I solved a crime,” he said, not taking his eyes off of his comm. “He was executed.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said, but didn’t try to make him speak any longer. Lieutenant Hooper sighed, looking at her gloved hands. Her face was probably a frustrated one. John didn't see, his eyes back to the rising levels of TPK. If the rain didn’t abate soon, they’d all get poisoned—and, soon, die. There was no cure for TPK poisoning, yet. It would be quite ironic, dying of TPK poisoning, especially since their whole objective with the mission was gathering enough data to create an antidote.

Sherlock got up.

“What are you doing?” John asked. There was no answer. John, Lieutenant Hooper and Mrs. Hudson traded looks.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson tried, which at least got her an acknowledgment.

“I’ll be right back,” he answered. He was about to leave the pod, but John had already gotten up as well, and stopped him by holding his arm.

“Your suit won’t hold against the acid rain, Sherlock.” Through the helmet, John could see his pursed lips and frustrated expression.

“I made the calculations. I can reach that pod,” he pointed at one of the husks in the distance, “before the acid makes a hole on the suit’s material. I’ll be fine.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“I am _not_ ,” he said, firmly. John could see he didn’t doubt himself. Still…

“If you are wrong and don’t manage to hit the pod in time, the acid will tear your suit. The burn you’ll get is not the worst part: you’ll be poisoned by the TPK and dead in-”

“Two minutes,” Sherlock interrupted him. “ _I made the calculations_.”

“Sherlock, If you go, you’ll die,” John tried again, wondering if he didn't see how much risk he was putting himself at. John found it unlikely. No one could be that reckless.

“If I don’t go, _everyone will die!_ ” Sherlock exclaimed, hands in the air. There was anger, now, alongside frustration, on his face.

A sob came from inside the pod, and then came Mrs. Hudson’s voice trying to calm someone down.

“Right,” John said, thinking fast. He needed to give Sherlock a reason to temper his recklessness. “Then I’m coming with you,” the sentence left his mouth before he could really consider what he was saying.

Sherlock looked at him as if he were mad. And maybe he was—but Sherlock had just proved he didn't need his cane, and putting the possibility of dying aside, this was the most fun he had had ever since he had been forced to discharge from the army. He wasn't ready to give up on it. Not yet. 

“Your legs are shorter,” Sherlock pointed out, but he had a calculating look. “There is no way you’ll reach that pod in time.”

“Find another way, then,” John suggested. Sherlock gave him an annoyed look, but seemed to reach a decision. Before John could react, Sherlock took his arm and pulled him towards one of the closest pods.

“Are you insane?!” John asked—yelled, really—once he realized what was going on. Sherlock didn’t answer at all. His heart beating fast, his legs moving automatically, John ran after him until they reached shelter again.

While Sherlock digged around for something, John checked his own suit for any tears. He didn’t find any.

“Here,” Sherlock said, a few minutes later, after John had reassured himself he wasn’t about to die. John looked back, and Sherlock was holding a sheet of metal, taken from the floor. He had taken one for himself, too. “Be careful how you hold it, if your glove stays outside the protection for too long it’ll tear.”

He didn’t say anything else before moving on to the pod he had originally intended to get to, and John followed shortly after, a little slower.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was sitting down, a few wires around, lots of electronic parts. John didn’t think there would be that much salvageable parts left behind—but he had obviously been wrong.

John sat by his side.

“How did you know you’d find this here?”

“I made a deduction,” Sherlock said. “The location of the pod—it’s not very close to the center of the fray, nor is it obviously on the outskirts—as well as the fact there were some valuable parts on the outside, all implied there would be valuable parts on the inside as well, so I knew it was likely I’d find what I need.”

“Pretty brilliant,” John remarked.

“Do you know... you said that out loud?” Sherlock asked. He sounded almost hesitant.

“Sorry,” John sighed. “I’ll shut up.”

“No, no. It’s… fine.” Sherlock answered, looking at John. And, then, as an afterthought: “I’ll get us all out of here.”

“I’m starting to believe you will.” John smiled at him.

 

* * *

 

“And how did your first non-military mission go?” Mike asked. John smiled, wondering how that would show up on the holographic face Mike was seeing all the way down on earth—there was always a bit of distortion, on those things, particularly with such distance.

“We were successful,” John answered, a bit evasive, before he remembered there was no need to keep secrecy anymore.

Mike chuckled. His face’s hologram moved up and down a little bit, and John thought he might have preferred a video chat instead. It was weird seeing only a face—no neck, no shoulders—, even if it was three-dimensional.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“There were complications.” John sat more comfortably on his chair, preparing himself for a long call. “We went to Karina and took a few samples of the plant life. Sherlock believes they have properties that might help fight most of the Sasurian poisons. You’ve probably done something like that a thousand times.”

“Not really,” Mike’s head shaked. “Sherlock never requested me on his missions.”

“Oh?” John asked, interest piqued.

“Yeah, he usually doesn’t take any medical officers with him, says we slow him down or something,” Mike rolled his eyes. “And Mrs. Hudson—have you met her?—she has a degree in medicine, so the Captain lets him get away with it.”

John frowned.

“Curious, then, that he asked me to go along.”

“You’re a soldier, too,” Mike said. “Or maybe he’s just curious. It's hard to guess his reasons, Sherlock has always been a mystery.”

“At least he proved my limp was psychosomatic,” John shrugged, before remembering that Mike wouldn’t be able to see it. “They reviewed my files, and cleared me for field duty again.”

“That’s pretty great!” John heard Mike clapping. He was about to agree when Mike’s head turned around. 

Mike started talking at someone outside the hologram range. He turned back to John, and said: “Give me a minut-” 

Mike left, and a few minutes went past while John waited. Finally, Mike came back.

“It’s Sunny, she’s just woken up from her nap.” Mike smiled softly. “She’s trying to play with your hologram-” he chuckled again. There was hustling, and John could imagine Mike trying to make his daughter sit still. “You mentioned complications?” He asked, his face still looking down at someone John couldn’t see—Sunny.

“Yeah. We got caught up on an unexpected storm, and it jumbled the comms. But Sherlock had this brilliant idea—you know the thing he does? Where his mind just- he makes this leaps of logic, and reaches a conclusion you’d never reach in a thousand years- well, he messed with the comms a bit and then contacted the ship. If he weren’t there, I think we’d all be dead.”

Mike hummed, a smile still on his face. John wondered what Sunny was doing to make him so amused.

“But enough about me!” John said. It didn't feel right to monopolize the conversation with his own adventures. “How’s fatherhood treating you?”

“It’s no space-travel,” Mike’s smile turned self-deprecating. John winced sympathetically. “But it’s- it’s good. I’m happy. I’ll always miss being in space, you know? But Sunny is more important than that,” he said. John thought it looked like he was trying to convince himself. Mike added, almost an afterthought: “Maybe I’ll go back when she’s older.”

“Maybe,” John agreed, but knew it was unlikely.

 

They kept chatting, for a while, about the affairs of earth and the Scotland Yard, although eventually Mike needed to leave—Sunny wanted to play outside, and they had to take advantage of the sun’s last hours. John waved him goodbye, an amused smile on his lips that disappeared as soon as he remembered that, now that he had finished talking to Mike, it was time to call Harriet.

He wasn’t looking forward to that.

 

* * *

 

John was quietly enjoying his meal.

It was still a novelty, for him, to enjoy his meal in space. He had gotten used to the army’s dried food, and as such the Scotland Yard’s solid, _tasty_  food was a step up. There was no doubt that while the military had better equipment, the Scotland Yard offered considerably more comfort. 

John had his wooden cane resting beside his seat, but hadn’t really used it ever since the mission. His knee would still act up, sometimes—particularly when he was bored—but knowing he could walk without his cane made him stubbornly refuse to use it again.

Yet, he kept it around. For some reason. A reminder, maybe. 

Someone put a metal tray in front of his, and John didn’t need to look up to guess—deduce—it was Sherlock.

Another thing that had changed on the weeks following the mission: Sherlock had started eating alongside him, sometimes in utter silence, but usually describing whatever it was he had been doing in the lab. John found it interesting—even though he didn’t understand all of it, if not most of it, and sometimes Sherlock had to stop mid sentence to explain some detail or other.

He didn’t really seem to mind, despite the mask of annoyance.

“How’s the research going?” John asked.

“We’ve extracted the _tetra-sasurinol_ ,” Sherlock explained. “Mrs. Hudson is going to test the differences between the substances found on the several samples we collected, and we’ll see which of them is more effective against the synthetic skin.”

“Everything seems to be moving on smoothly.”

“So far,” Sherlock shrugged. “Probably not for very long.”

“Don’t be so cynical.”

“I’m just trusting the probabilities,” Sherlock rebutted. “It’s not cynicism if I’m right.”

John snorted.

“If you say so.”

 

* * *

 

The common room was pretty empty. Besides himself, there were only a pair of ensigns playing chess. John couldn’t complain: the silence was good for reading a book. He had downloaded a few, on his PADD, that Mike had recommended the last time they had spoken.

John was reading the third chapter when he heard someone sit down beside him. He looked up, and there was Sherlock.

“Hey,” John said. Sherlock didn’t usually spend his time on the common room, so John was a bit surprised to see him there. “Bored again?”

Sherlock huffed, which was an answer in itself. When there was no other answer forthcoming, John went back to his reading. Sherlock would speak if he wanted to speak—that was who he was.

Unsurprisingly, just after John had finished reading another page, Sherlock asked:

“What are you reading?”

It wasn't exactly what John had been expecting him to say—Sherlock rarely indulged in small talk. John looked at him: he had this empty face, devoid of feelings. It was an uncomfortable sight. He wondered if he should ask, but- well, Sherlock never really talked about  _sentiment_. John decided to be a good friend, and humored his question.

“It’s a mystery. There’s a crime, and a woman-”

“Dull!” Sherlock complained, closing his eyes and burrowing himself on his seat. Alright, then. John got closer, and Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder. “These kind of books are horrible! The detectives are dumb, and it’s always obvious who the criminal is halfway through the book.”

“Well, not always,” John argued. “Some authors are really good, and it’s not obvious at all up until the very end. Mike said these are very well written.”

“That doesn’t redeem the gross mistakes,” Sherlock complained.

“How would you know they’re mistakes?” John asked, amused.

“Even if they weren’t obvious, John—I used to be a detective, before.”

John looked down, surprised. Sherlock offered him a smug smile.

“You were a detective?”

“Consulting detective. I helped other detectives solve their cases, but only if they were interesting enough. I helped send Mrs. Hudson husband to jail.”

“What?”

“The time I spent in Florida. I told you about that.”

“Well, yes. I just didn’t assume… that you were a detective. That’s light-years away from being a scientist.”

“Is it, really?” Sherlock asked. “Both seek the truth. Both follow a method. Both see reality, extrapolate from that following clues, and eventually reach a conclusion. There was a lot of experimentation involved- more than you'd think.”

There was a distant look on Sherlock's face. He looked wistful.

“You look like you miss it,” John mused. “Why did you stop?”

“The Sasurians came.” Sherlock shrugged. “We discovered there was life in space. We built spaceships.” There was a beat of silence, in which none of them said anything. And then: “Space had promise. I assumed it would be less dull.” He scoffed.

“It isn’t?”

“The problem wasn’t Earth.” 

“I always thought space was better. I can’t see myself living on Earth and being—happy. Not like Mike. For me, space isn’t dull at all.” John looked back at Sherlock, who now had a half-smile on his face. He looked almost- _fond_.

“You would think that.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, he said: “Tell me about the book you’re reading, I bet I can guess the criminal before you do.”

(He did)

 

* * *

 

The med bay was a big mess. The last mission the crew had been sent to had been a complete disaster, and a lot of people had gotten hurt. Most of them were fine, by now—John had made sure of it, treating them personally. He had even requested Mrs. Hudson’s help, as she also had a degree in medicine.

All that was left, then, was tidy everything up. And John would do that. To avoid. Thinking. Yes.

Tidying was not something he liked doing, particularly—but organization had been drilled into him in the military, and he didn’t see the advantage in letting it go. He had just started re-calibrating the tricorders when the door to the med bay opened and Sherlock entered in a huff.

Immediately, John abandoned what he had been doing in favor of walking over to him, checking him for injuries. He had been on the mission, earlier. John had heard it was pure luck he hadn’t gotten himself killed.

Sherlock would have been mad, had he heard the same thing. He didn’t believe in luck. He’d argue it was logic, deduction, the scientific method. The thought of that—and seeing Sherlock, right there, in front of him, alive—calmed him down slightly.  

“Everything ok?” John asked, worried despite himself.

“I’m not hurt, John,” Sherlock answered, but despite his annoyance, he stayed still until John had finished checking him.

“What are you doing here, then?” Jonh asked, once he was done, going back to his tricorder and trying to hide his hands were trembling.

“I can leave,” Sherlock offered, and John huffed.

“Not what I asked. You came here for a reason, no?”

“I just wanted to get a check up,” Sherlock said, slowly, and John snorted.

“Maybe if I didn’t know you I’d believe that excuse.”

Sherlock laid down on one of the cots, one arm on his face. John spared him a glance, but didn’t say anything else. After that, there was mostly silence while John bustled around, and eventually he realized that it was because Sherlock had fallen asleep.

John smiled, amused. Sherlock could _really_ sleep anywhere. John had seen it countless times, before—Sherlock falling asleep over his food, during lunch, or while John had been talking, on the common room, or even in the lab, while everyone else worked and Sherlock waited for a determined experiment to pan out.  It usually happened after Sherlock spent shift after shift huddled over a microscope, or hours thinking over a theory. John figured the mission gone wrong had taken its toll on him, more than he'd let on.

 

By the end of the shift, Sherlock was still sleeping, and John didn’t really have the heart to wake him up—so he left him there. He wouldn’t, if the next shift had been Anderson’s, but Anderson had gotten hurt as well and wouldn’t be fit for duty for a few days.

  
  
Once John reached the common room, the first officer stopped him.

“Have you seen Doctor Holmes? I need to talk to him.”

John almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he said:

“Have you checked by the labs? He’s usually there.”

 

* * *

 

They were in the common room, John playing chess with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock sulking alone on the corner for a reason he refused to disclose. John had decided to let him sulk for a while before trying to navigate those waters—a moody Sherlock was not a beautiful thing.

The door whirred open, and the first officer came in with heavy steps.

“You!” she yelled, and John turned around to see her pointing at Sherlock, face distorted into pure rage. Sherlock rolled his eyes, doubtlessly working out what she was going to say before she did. John wondered if he wanted to get in the middle of the discussion. He decided against it. “How dare you endanger the whole crew like that!”

“Please,” Sherlock said, arms crossed. “Nothing like that would have happened if they had followed my plan. I can’t take responsibility for people’s stupidity.”

“They didn’t follow your plan because you withheld information!”

“Explaining every bit of information that goes through my mind would be a waste of time,” Sherlock shrugged. “They wouldn’t understand.”

“You think you’re so smart-”

“I _am_ smart.”

“No! You’re just a white boy that does whatever he wants because of his brother’s position in the government!” The first officer raised her hands, exasperated. “Do you think the captain would let you get away with everything were it not for your brother?”

Both of them looked at Lestrade, who simply raised his arms, unwilling to be dragged into the conversation. John thought it was a wise move. There was no right thing to say that would make the both of them happy, and if he tried to placate either they would just get angry.

Sherlock pursed his lips, then adjusted his scarf, and turned himself back to the first officer.

“You should not let your feelings for Anderson cloud your judgment, Sally,” Sherlock spat at her, viciousness dripping from every word.

“There is nothing going on-”

“Oh? Are you not wearing his cologne? Is this earring not the one he bought last time we were off-duty? Is that not stubble-burn on your chin?”

“This has nothing to do-”

“Don’t waste my time with this,” Sherlock said, stalking off. The captain sighed, before going after him. John considered going, too, but figured he'd just hinder his efforts.

He went back to his game of chess.

 

* * *

 

 “You’re too reckless,” John grumbled, cleaning a cut that had been bleeding profusely on Sherlock’s forehead. “I should revoke your access to the labs on days you don’t sleep the required 8 hours.”

Mrs. Hudson giggled, from where she was, hiding her face behind a sheet of paper.

“You should see him before you started dating, John. At least he accepts medical help, now,” she said.

“What- we’re not dating, Mrs. Hudson!” 

Mrs Hudson sent him one of the looks she reserved for Sherlock, when he was being particularly obtuse.

“Don’t be silly, John. I know some people are still stupid about it, but you’re not in the army anymore- there’s no reason to hide these things.”

“Yes, but we’re not- it’s not-” John looked up at Sherlock, for help, but the man was looking at a spot behind his shoulder, probably lost in thought. “We’re not together like that,” he settled, finally. _I’m not sure Sherlock loves like that_ , he thought.

But that was unfair of him. John knew that Sherlock’s feelings ran deep. He knew the problem was that he just didn’t like to let them get in the way of his thoughts—his logic. Sherlock liked to pretend he was a complicated man, but the truth was that he was very simple. He didn’t like to feel vulnerable—so he pretended he wasn’t able to feel.

He was a good at it, most of the time, but John had seen him slip. That first time, in the mission. John was still not convinced Sherlock didn’t blame himself, for not deducing a storm would hit them. As if he could predict everything.

Sherlock hissed, and John noticed he, too, had gotten lost in thought.

“Sorry,” he said. “I got distracted.”

 

* * *

  

“So who is it?” Mike asked, his hologram sending him an amused look.

“Who is… who?”

“You have that glow in your eyes you get when you’re in love with someone,” he said, and John… looked at him with his mouth opened.

“I’m not in love with Sherlock!”

Mike smirked.

“Sherlock, huh? You know what, I’m not even surprised.”

John huffed.

“Mrs. Hudson assumed we were dating, yesterday,” John admitted. “I can’t really see how she reached that conclusion, I mean-”

“Well, I can,” Mike interrupted him.

“You only know my side of the story, though. Maybe it’s easy to see I like him, but Sherlock is- he’s not like that.” Mike raised an eyebrow.

“You forget I served with him for sixteen months,” he said. “It’s obvious he has a soft spot for you, he isn’t like that with anyone else.”

“That doesn’t mean he _likes me_ likes me,” John rebutted. And then hid his face on his hands. “Now I sound like a teenager.”

Mike laughed—a full-bodied, hearty laugh, that made his face leave the hologram range. There was some noise from the other side, and John wondered if Mike had fallen to the floor. He ended up chuckling along.

“Yeah, yeah- laugh it up.”

“Have you considered,” Mike tried speaking, but was still a little breathless. “Talking to him?”

“Yes. And I know this will sound cliche, but I don’t want to jeopardize our friendship,” John sighed. “Sherlock’s terrible with feelings.”

“You’re not being any better.”

“Says the man who pined for the same woman for two years before getting the nerve to ask her out,” John crossed his arms.

“Exactly. I have _experience._  And all turned out well in the end, right? I married her. Maybe it’ll turn out alright for you too.”

“Maybe,” John agreed, unconvinced.

 

* * *

 

“Doctor Watson,” the captain called. John looked up from his PADD, and met Lestrade’s annoyed face. Had Sherlock done anything? That was his ‘ _Sherlock did something I don’t want to deal with_ ’ face. “Someone wishes to talk to you, meet me in the conference room?”

John shrugged, but followed the captain to the conference room. It was nearly empty—except for the big screen depicting a ginger man, with a hawkish nose and an expensive suit. John frowned.

“This is Admiral Holmes. _Holmes_ , this is Doctor Watson.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Lestrade looked like he was about to say something, even went as far as pointing at the screen, but in the end he just huffed and left the room.

“It is good to finally talk to you, Doctor Watson. I have heard much about you,” the man said.

“I… can’t say the same.”

“No,” the man agreed. “But let us not dwell in small talk, shall we? I would like to speak to you about my brother.”

“Your brother?” The man looked at him with a look of condescension. Where had John seen that look before- “You’re the brother with a position in the government,” realization dawned on John.

“Yes,” the man sighed. “Sherlock and I are not in the best of terms, you see.”

John didn’t like where that conversation was being directed to—He crossed his arms. Sat on the chair straighter. The man kept going.

“I have been told you are… good. For my brother. That he is less reckless,” John snorted, but the man ignored him, “when he is with you. That he seeks medical attention. That he sleeps properly. We have seen a great rise on his productivity levels.”

“The perks of being friends with a doctor,” John inclined his head to the side.

“My brother doesn’t do friends well…”

“Understatement of the century,” John agreed.

“So if there is anything I can do to make things… easier…” John frowned, and was about to interrupt the man when the door opened, suddenly, and Sherlock stalked inside.

“ _Mycroft_ ,” he spat, and the name carried such hatred it was surprising.

“Sherlock,” the man answered, his tone… softer.

“Can’t you leave anything alone? Do you always have to do this?” he stalked up to the screen, almost nose to nose with it. “Why do you always spoil things for me?”

“Sherl-”

“No! You know what? No!” he took a few steps back from the screen, then pressed a button—the screen turned black. Sherlock stalked back to John. “What did he _tell_ you?” he demanded.

“That you’re not on the best of terms,” John snorted again. “Your brother really likes euphemisms. I think he was about to offer me money to be your friend.”

Sherlock frowned.

“He does that.”

“You know I’m not your friend because of money, right?” John asked. Sherlock frowned… harder.

“I don’t do _friends_ ,” he said. His tone was dismissive. John felt his stomach plummet, his heart… burn. He clenched his hands.

“ _Right_ ,” he drawled. “I wonder why.”

He got up from the chair he had been sitting at, and left the conference room—slamming the door in his wake.

 

* * *

 

John was ignoring Sherlock. It wasn’t a very particularly hard thing to do—after sicking Anderson on him the first few times he showed up on the med bay and consciously changing the time he took his lunch break, Sherlock stopped seeking him out.

He didn’t know if that made him feel better.

(It didn’t)

 

* * *

 

“You know, Sherlock is a good boy,” Mrs. Hudson sat next to him. She looked at him with big eyes, and there was something akin to sadness on them. “He's just not very good with feelings.”

“Look, Mrs. Hudson-” John started, but didn’t really know what to say. He knew that. He _knew_ that. 

“I know, dear. I know,” she patted him on the arm. “Relationships are hard. But you two love each other, it’s pretty clear to anyone with eyes. So you’ll end up making up.”

“We are not- _were_ not. Together.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed. It was clear she didn’t believe him.

“You are so very stubborn,” she berated him. “Talk to him, John.”

“I don’t want to hear what he has to say,” John answered.

“Ah,” she said. It was as if that explained everything. Maybe it did. “Sometimes he says things he doesn’t mean.”

“He meant what he said, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Maybe he thought he did,” she answered, ever so wise. “But whatever it is, I think he regrets it now. Maybe you should give him the chance to apologize.”

“Maybe,” John answered, unconvinced.

 

* * *

 

The truth was, John was afraid.

He knew Sherlock—stubborn, brilliant, socially awkward, emotionally stunted. He knew what he was like when he said something he didn’t mean, or when he was trying to deflect attention into something else. He had done it with the first officer, before. When he had said he didn’t do friends, he had meant it.

And it had hurt.

John had been shot at in plenty of different occasions—he had almost died in plenty of others. He had been disappointed by his sister over and over. And hearing Sherlock say they weren’t friends had hurt more than all of that.

It was not that he didn’t want to forgive Sherlock—in fact, he missed his company terribly. The problem was that he feared that if he forgave and that friendship kept going, he’d find himself falling harder.

And, eventually, he’d reach the floor.

That would hurt more.

 

* * *

 

“So you’re no longer on speaking terms?” Mike asked.

“No,” John sighed. “Everyone keeps saying that he misses me but-” he shrugged. “I don’t think I can do that anymore.”

“Then you don’t really have anything to lose, do you?”

“He could still stomp all over my heart.”

“He could,” Mike agreed. “But do you think he would?”

“Not on purpose, no. But he’s-” John ran his hand through his hair. “He has no tact. He just goes around saying what he thinks and being blunt, he has no considerations for your feelings. So if I said anything and he didn’t- I don’t know. If I could be friends. Again.”

“You don’t want to tell him you’re in love with him for fear he says something that breaks your heart, and at the same time you don’t think you can be his friend anymore without getting hurt,” Mike explained. “It looks to me, old friend, that the only way you can solve this is by telling him. If he doesn’t love you back, then nothing changed, and at least you know.”

“Maybe,” John said.

 

* * *

 

There was an explosion. Half of the ship knew of it. When he heard the doors to the med bay open to admit the patient, he thought he was ready for it—he had checked the tricorders, prepared the healing pod, sterilized his tools—but then he looked at the patient’s face, and it was Sherlock.

John felt panic. It was a rising thing, from his stomach all the way to his throat. Sherlock had his arms all burned, his body full of shrapnel.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he told Anderson. His voice wavered. He had treated friends, before, on the line of fire—when there was no other option. When if he didn’t try, they were sure to die. But here-

He didn’t think he’d be able to bounce back if anything wrong happened.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” John nodded. “Do it.”

“He’ll never forgive me for saving his life.”

“He doesn’t have a choice,” John said. Then left the room.

 

Later, after Sherlock was—safe, out of danger, stabilized—John went back. He sat beside Sherlock’s cot, and stayed there for a long time.

“Oh, John,” Mrs. Hudson said. She had a cut on her forearm, but was otherwise unharmed. She sat beside him, took his hand and stayed with him for an hour, before she had to leave.

Molly came next. Then a few of the other ensigns from the science division. Eventually, John was left alone with Sherlock, again.

It was well into delta shift—John had been awake since the alpha, so it neared 24 hours since the last time he slept—when Sherlock woke up. It was fast: one moment he was unconscious, and the other he had his eyes open. All the weight of those deep blue eyes were now looking at him, deducing him.

“John,” he said. His voice was rough, _raw_. He coughed, before he kept going. “John, about that thing I said-”

“It’s alright,” John interrupted. He was too tired to deal with that, now.

“No. I need you to know that I meant it. I don’t have friends, I-” Sherlock frowned, lips pursed. John felt his heart break, again. But at least, this time, he had been expecting it.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. I get it.”

“ _No_ ,” he emphasized. “No, you don’t get it, John. I don’t have friends, I just have- you. I have _you_.”

“Sherlock-” John tried, but Sherlock just growled in irritation and _pulled_ , making John fall all over him. “Sherlock, what are you-”

He didn’t have any chance to finish the thought—Sherlock kissed him.

  
  
“I was going to tell you,” John said. Later. The med bay was dark, the lights out, and he was still sitting beside Sherlock’s cot. John had his hair tousled and his lips swollen—and so did Sherlock. John thought he looked particularly pretty with his cheeks tinted red.

“What were you going to tell me?”

“That I love you. I had a speech ready and everything,” John sighed. When there was no answer forthcoming, he looked back at Sherlock.

Deep blue eyes wide open, lips parted—no answer forthcoming. Sherlock was surprised. How could he be surprised? It was so _obvious_.

John smiled. It was a happy smile.

“Sherlock,” he called. Sherlock looked at him. “These days we’ve been apart… they made me think. I missed you. Terribly. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t be your friend. I can’t be _just_ your friend. I need more. I love you. And I need you to love me too.”

“I-” Sherlock tried. He still looked absolutely stunned. “John, I- _you too_.”

John chuckled.

 

* * *

 

“You can’t put it off forever,” John said, amusement on his voice. “One day you’ll have to say the word _love_.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock answered.

(he looked unconvinced)


End file.
